An Unfortunate Habit

Now reader, this one is going to shock you, but I feel you need to know if we are going to have a healthy relationship:

I am not a perfect person.

No no, it’s true! You can stop shaking your head and gaping at how humble I am.

Some faults I have worked on over the years, I actively acknowledged how annoying I was when I was younger and tried to make myself less of a douche. But there is one thing in particular I do that has never really worked out well for me yet I can’t seem to stop doing. 

I wouldn’t really class myself as a lazy person, I work, I walk the dog, I do the housework when I get home before mum (which is not ever, but the thought is there). But the one lazy attribute I have is something I picked up as a student; and I think there are a lot of sufferers out there who need to know they are not alone.

I hate getting dressed in the morning.

Screw you, jerks.

We all love our pyjamas and wish that we could spend our lives in them; they are designed to be comfy and some of them have pockets you can store biscuits in (it’s what I use them for anyway). I personally opt for the “oversized t-shirt look” because it means that I can eat a large pizza to myself and still feel skinny because my food baby is well hidden under the canopy of my shirt. The mirror has no idea it’s there and I feel clever for tricking it.

Dumbass.

But my commitment to pyjamas is actually half-arsed in itself, because I start out with the good intention of being a fully clothed person when I get out of bed, but once I have completed the underwear phase the whole “ergh now I have to find matching things to put on the outside” situation crops up and that is where I lose my motivation. A normal person upon giving up getting dressed would probably put their pjs back on, but I feel like that would be too much like getting dressed and then I may as well have just put actual clothes on. So underwear it is. Obviously when I have work this isn’t a problem because I am aware that to keep my job I need to be wearing clothes, so common sense wins out on those days.

But for several months after finishing university I found myself all alone every single day whilst my parents were out earning money in order to feed and clothe me (ironic really). This gave me the freedom to live my life as I chose; meaning for 5 days out of the week I would wear pyjamas until 5 minutes before mum arrived home, unless it was one of those motivated days when I would be in my underwear.

Unfortunately the next 3 anecdotes all happened when I was having a motivated day, all of them within the last few months and all of them at varying levels of shame.

Percentage of upcoming shame: 24%

When I was jobless I did not usually leave my room until hunger drove me downstairs at about 11’o’clock in the morning, then I would grab an armful of food and retreat back to my room for the rest of the day. So it was an odd morning that found me downstairs at 8.30am (it may or may not have been to watch a certain children’s TV show that I accidentally got addicted to, but that is a whole different problem).

What I forgot was that our neighbour comes to take our dog for a walk at that time every morning, a fact I did not remember until the front door opened suddenly. Naturally my first instinct was to run, the only place to run to would be the room with our dogs basket in, the only place to hide in that room that isn’t visible is the dogs basket.

Unfortunately for me, Buster was upstairs, not bothering to get up to go for his walk.

 “I’m not a cliché you know” – my dog.

Meaning the neighbour started to come into the kitchen to search the dogs bed. I could hear him coming closer so I swallowed my panic and popped my head around the door, “Oh hi! He is upstairs on my bed, erm, you can go get him if you like”. There was an awkward pause before he thanked me and went to retrieve Buster.

I’m fairly certain he did not know about my clothing predicament even though I looked suspicious, but he may now believe that I sleep in the dog basket and that Buster has my room. Or failing that, I appear to be somebody who enjoys hanging out in a dog basket during the early hours of the morning.

Percentage of upcoming shame: 37%

This one is only embarrassing because I had no idea about the situation until after it occurred:

I like dancing when I’m by myself, I like it more when I’m pampering myself at the same time. Recently I was dyeing my eyelashes and painting my nails while dancing around to The Supremes, in my motivated state of dress. I don’t know if you have ever seen eyelashes being dyed, but it looks like you have three big eyelashes all clumped together with tar.

The doorbell rang.

I looked out the window preparing to ignore whoever it was, but there was a car outside so I figured whoever it was had driven there especially and I don’t like wasting peoples time. So I quickly pulled on my jogging bottoms and my pj top and ran downstairs congratulating myself on being so decisive. My eyes were stinging a little bit from the dye, but I figured I would muscle through it.

When I answered the door, the gentleman took a step backwards. Retrospectively this should have been my first clue. But I gave him my most winning smile and chatted to him while he gave me a message for dad, he apologised for waking me up (at 2 in the afternoon) and I assured him I was not sleeping when he rang, to which he looked a little confused.

There is a mirror behind our front door which I had been in too much of a hurry to look into when I answered, however when I closed the door I came face to face with this:

"Would you like to come insideeeeee?"

Actually that is probably less scary than the real thing. My hair was inexcusable as it was, but I had some how managed to make it static during my frantic t-shirt application, my face was black from dye which had streaked down my face in fat blobs, my eyes contained more dye than I previously thought and were bloodshot and watery, I had some how got nail varnish in my right eyebrow and not only was my t-shirt inside out but so were my joggers.

Luckily I never had to see him again.

Oh no wait, he totally came round again that very night. Yay!

Percentage of upcoming shame: 96%

As discussed in my previous blog, I’m not so good with greeting other adults, but if I have to talk with the man who cleans our windows I completely lose my nerve for some reason. So I spend a lot of time trying to avoid him when he is doing his thing because I feel like an animal in a zoo, a boring one.

(I guess I’m a bit hypocritical since I spend large amounts of time with my face against Fishtopher’s bowl watching him swim about. I wonder if he tries to avoid me.)

Normally I hear him coming, but on this day I was lying on my bed (a place you cannot see unless you happen to be on a ladder outside my window) when a movement caught my eye and I noticed the top of his head about to pop into view. I would have made The Flash himself jealous; the laws of physics could barely contain me I moved so quickly on to the landing, where I was faced with a whole new predicament; where should I hide? Every room has windows and I had no idea where he would be next (he works with another man, so potentially that’s two rooms off limit at any one time). I decided the best thing to do would be to quickly dash into my parent’s room and lie down the side of the bed between the wardrobe and the bed.

I stayed there for over half an hour just to be safe, I heard him clean all the windows.

It was only upon rising out of that position I realised there are mirrors covering the doors of the wardrobe.

I always forget, though I doubt I’ll be forgetting again soon, that mirrors do not just reflect the things right in front of them but depending on your position you can see the whole of a room. To test it I stood by my parent’s window, and sure enough I could see the exact position I had been taking cover in. Or more precisely, where I had been lying flat on my back in my underwear on my parent’s bedroom floor practising the British sign language alphabet while a man cleaned my windows and probably made the decision to quit his job.

So now I have one more reason to hide when the window cleaner comes.

I should never have taunted the mirror with my baggy tops.

You have won this time.